White Plume

Whut be da haps.

2005-01-21T04:22:00.000-08:00

I was going to take a class at UNLV. In my profile (which now that I mention it I should probably update a bit) I mention certain insecurities which would perhaps a class would help. Let's discuss.

I have a moderately psychic friend who once told me that she had a premonition once that might be of interest to me. She was walking out of the barnes and Noble when something caught her eye on the way out. It was a book that I wrote so she picked it up and thought 'Now when did this happen?'

She told me about it later and then proceeded to nag me about not writing it yet. Her nagging continues to this day despite my lax efforts.

Last summer I was in a writing contest and ran out of momentum, but not before acheiving a modest amount of satisfactory work, though it could definitely be made better. I find out that with a little encouragement, a reasonable deadline, an inspiring theme and the aid of several gallons of legal addictive stimulants, I actually like burning the midnight oil in a frenzy of inspiration. I won't say it comes natural, but it's just under the skin. Most of my ideas incubate and one such idea actually turned out alright.

Since then I've had ideas incubating, but i've done little writing. More importantly I've been reading a lot more. I just finished 'A clockwork orange' and 'The Electric kool aid acid test' and I'm reeling.

I was tidying up my room a bit with the aid of a remote control bulldozer and amongst the knick-knacks forming the landscape was the literary issue of a local weekly publication. I read the first place winner of their literary contest. The theme was so overused it had stretch-marks, the dialogue brought to mind day old bagghettes, the characters seemed haphazardly fashioned out of cardboard, and then there was the 'surprise ending'. You could tell the guy wanted to put a smart twist in there, but he only succeeded in giving it scoliosis.

That sealed it. I'm throwing my hat into the ring. I'm still not confident in my abilities, but we'll see where I can go with this.

To bring this all full circle, I said that I ALMOST took a class at UNLV. My 800 verbal SAT allowed me to not only clear their admissions, but let me skip two of the required english courses. The more I thought about it though, the more I had to learn my lesson from the writing contest. I was up against some talented people who were ever so casually producing work much better than mine. Were this to happen again I might get discouraged and give it up. Then having a teacher pouring over my work and assigning it's worth in such a perfunctory manner is another blow I'm not sure I could handle. Plus, with only a few notable exceptions I hate college kids. But not half as much as I hate college professors.

Finally, I was having an early morning dinner with a friend of mine and discussing where I go from here. The conversation went something like this:

"Sooooo, why do you need to go to college to write?"

'Well, I want to learn how to write.'

"Can't you just do that by writing?"

'But by going through class I can develop my style.'

"Don't you do that by just writing?"

'But I want to get better.'

"Yeah. You do that by writing."

So anyway, I have a goal to be published inside of three months. Wish me luck.

Inner Narative, or; an exercise in futility

2005-01-21T04:10:00.000-08:00

I sit in in the coldness of night afire with too much thought and not enough sleep. Worlds dance around me, people and places and feelings and stories all shifting, evolving, becoming, with or without me.

I am in a foot race to get this all down. My fingers are flying, dancing, racing, lunging, plunging, ravaging, sacking, pillaging, commanding, wreaking havoc with the keys. The keys themselves offer click, crash, snap, boom, ack, pop, clack, snicker, tick tick tick tick tick...

I am writing in a furious storm and going nowhere. I am swimming in the abyss moving about just to delight in the feeling of it all washing over me like cool water. Nothing will satiate me. Nothing will slake me. Too many words. Too many emotions. Need more sleep. Need more coffee. Need more love. Need more freedom. Need more chocolate. Need more More MORE MORE!!!

Wow. All that in two minutes. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

2004-11-23T13:08:00.000-08:00

It has been some timne since my last post, and while I have shamefully not been maintaining this blog, several things have happened, but one currently notable.

Over the course of fifteen minutes I decided, then arranged to spend the Thanksgiving Holiday with my family in California. Almost as satisfying as the knwoledge that I'll be with my family is the knowledge that I'm making everything happen on my own. There is a tangible feeling of accomplishment in being productive.

Fifteen Minutes. When was the last time you set in motion a course of events so quickly? Why not try it more often?

A love letter I DID write.

2004-09-12T13:46:00.000-07:00

Its been a while since I’ve written anything, or at least added any content to this page. Its not for lack of inspiration, but rather I've had quite a bit to get though. Three weeks ago I went to a bar and wrote some of my thoughts down. I've strung these thoughts together and this is what I got.

I'm nine beers into the night, or the rough equivalent of four shots of a tolerable whiskey. I've long past the point where my face feels numb to the touch. My skin is numb. My mind is numb. Even my tongue is numb. So how is it that the thought of you still pains me?

Its an interesting development. I don’t typically drink all that much. Yet here I sit in a state of alcohol induced euphoria, commiserating with myself in my loneliness.

The blankness of the page speaks to me in honest tone, and therefore requires honesty in return. I am lost without you. I am lost without you. Without you, what is life? How can I claim to be alive without the echo of our heartbeats to pronounce the fact? Who am I to dare exist without your smile to sanction me?

I feel the need to fight, to quarrel, to destroy, and in doing so be consumed in destruction. It is easier for me to endure the basest degradation than to continue in such slavery to your memory.

I cannot bare to be strong anymore. To think I have withstood blows and slurs and all the manners of savagery only to fall helpless at your touch. My lips quake and become parched in the absence of your kiss. It is the balm I need to sooth my troubled soul.

Tragic. That I needed too much drink and time to think to realize my utter dependency on you. I need you. In your presence I need. IN your absence I need.

In your presence I need to sing and dance. I need to exhaust the fates which brought us together. I need to stop time and savor you. I need to experience your taste, your voice, the warmth of your breath in the heat of passion, the suppleness of your skin under my stewardship. Most importantly I need to find the soul deep within your eyes, and in doing so, find my rest, my solace, my serenity.

In my absence I need to toil, to fight, to strive, to bite. I need to destroy. I need to be consumed, so that I may rise like the phoenix and be born again from my own ashes. You hold within your bosom my sacred purpose and without you I must find some other cause to champion.

Your kiss is the wellspring of life to me. Without it, how am I to slake this tortuous thirsting which drains even the very soul from my marrow? So kiss me. Touch me. Let me worship you. Because I need you. Because you deserve it. Because alone we are the stuff of greatness, but together we wield so awesome a power as to even halt the passing of time and create entire worlds for us to share to the exclusion of all else.

Look at me. I drone on like a fool. Then it must be love, for only love will turn a wise man to such foolish prattling. Be with me. Assuage this need in me. Have the courage to love me as I do you.

I'll never forget the time...

2004-08-09T10:03:00.001-07:00

We all go back a long way, and quite naturally we begin telling war stories, the ones that inevitably begin with "I'll never forget the time..."

We don't see each other that often anymore, and we haven't seen each other's parents in years, and there is the southern custom of asking about one's parents.

It goes, "How's your mamma and 'en (and them)?"- which translates into, " In what condition are your mother and your other first of kin?"

We took turns talking about our parents. "My mother puts terrible guilt trips on me," somebody said. " I'll call and tell her I'm on my way shopping, and she'll say, 'I wish I had the money to go shopping.'"

"Mine does the same thing," said somebody else. " I won a trip to Las Vegas from my company and I called my mother and told her about it.

"She said, 'I guess that means you won't be coming to see me in a long time.'

"I said, 'Mama, it's just for a week.' She said,'I might not be here in another week.'

"She's in perfect health, but I called her every day from Vegas just to make sure she hadn't contracted some sort of terrible disease."

I said my mother still worries about whether or not I'm wearing clean underwear because I might be in a wreck and the doctors would seemy dirty undershorts.

"My mother does that, too," somebody else spoke up, "but it all means they really love us."

It does. It's funny how our attitudes change about our parents as we got older and they got older. These people were our enemies when we were children.

They were the ones who made us eat our vegetables, madeus go to bed earlier than we wanted to, fussed over our grades, lectured us and wouldn't allow us out of the house with dirty underwear.

But you forget all that, and you would miss the guilt trips if they weren't around to send you on them.

"Tell them about your dad and the buiscuits," one friend asked another.

"God, it still makes me cry," she began.

"Every morning when I go to work, I go right by my father's house. And every morning- I've been doing this for years- I stop by and drink coffee with him and he makes biscuits for me because he doesn't want me going to work on an empty stomach.

"One day I overslept, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop by and see him. The weather was awful. It was cold and it was raining.

"So I called my dad and told him I wouldn't have time to stop by. He said, 'You won't?' I could hear the disappointment in his voice, but I said, 'Daddy, I'll stop by tomorrow morning, so don't worry about it.'

"So I get in the car and I start driving to work. As soon as I rounded the corner to drive the past the house, I saw this figure standing out in the cold and rain with a sack in his hand.

"It was Daddy. He was out there waiting for me so I would still have my biscuits."

Everybody in the room was in tears when she finished. 'Tis the season to be thankful. Thanks for the parental love, the purest love of all.

Revelation

2004-08-09T10:03:00.000-07:00

I went to church today. That makes four times since I've moved to Las Vegas. Most 'non-practicing' believers who don't attend on anything resembling a consistent basis usually come for the holidays, Easter and Christmas. Obviously I bucked this trend, but I personally don't count myself as a believer because I don't think you can be a believer and not practice. It may sound like a funny distinction to draw, but I just feel like pretending otherwise would be to demean by association the faith of those who do actually live their beliefs. Could you honestly call yourself a lawyer if all you ever do is crack a few books and file a few briefs?

There are about five christian churches within the mile and a half between my apartment and the library I work at. This is because there are over 300 different denominations within protestantism catering to almost every interpretation of the bible and theological fetish. If the devil truly can quote scripture to his purpose, there's probably a church or two out there who would more than willingly justify welcoming him as long as he tithed and filled up any empty space on their pews.

Let me first say there are a lot of people-consumed with-hate who call themselves christians. I defy them for the same reason I do not call myself a believer, being that I refuse to slander those of good heart and true faith through such association. In their defiance of the word they prove they are not christians, but zealots. The hallmark of a zealot is a person who uses righteous anger to justify their hatred. These persons of hate slander the message they claim to uphold. They are wolves in sheep's clothing, and drive others away from the flock. I would challenge anyone who believes caring for a woman who has an abortion makes you complicit in the murder of a baby by asking whether Jesus caring enough for the adulteress to ask 'He who is without sin' to cast the first stone and spare her in doing so, made him complicit to adultery?

For all the problems in the christian faith, I deeply respect the basis of love and respect that its founded on. For every bible thumping zealot chastising homosexuals and women who get abortions, I know twenty christians who practice the love, tolerance, and equanimity that Jesus practiced. I believe in this concept and that all spiritual growth comes along these lines and is interconnected. Jesus provides an excellent model for spiritual growth which- depending on what you believe- is either echoed or an echo in other spiritual traditions. I have a very good friend of mine who is a member of the self-realization fellowship and he is still astounded that he can open up the teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda and find the exact passage he needs to guide him when he needs it. Perhaps its providence, perhaps its just the application of a spiritual context which allows him to move beyond his limiting influences. Either way when you open yourself up and ask for spiritual guidance you will find it, because just as science proves entire universes can exist within a single speck of sand, so too does the profound lay within the mundane.

That's what brought me to church today. I have been going through a spiritual crisis lately because of a writing contest I was recently involved in. In the process of the contest it made me confront certain parts of myself that I don't necessarily like to deal with. It also brought me face to face with whatever divine power I might yet possess while affecting within me a profound sense of my own limitations. It feels like the gauntlet has been thrown down and I must now either take it or walk away. So I opened myself up and walked down the street, fishing for guidance. I passed a Catholic curch and an Evangelical Free church before feeling compelled to enter the Methodist church across from UNLV.

My grandparents were/are Methodists, and my dad was raised in the Methodist church. Despite this family tradition and being raised in church, I had only been to a Methodist church four times in my life, and one of those times was to celebrate the fortieth aniversary of my grandparents singing in the choir. This particular church offers a 'contemporary' christian service which caters to people going through a mid-life crisis and a younger crowd with attention spans formed by years of video games and television. I've been avoiding this one because somehow breaking into a guitar solo in the middle of 'Be still my Soul' seems to be missing the point. Church should provide spiritual fellowship, but it should not just be the place you go and hang out on sundays. That's why I've always preferred the early morning services which cater to the older generations. I like to think that I'm enough of a spiritual grown-up not to require the litergy to be spoon fed to me. That and I've always liked old people. They tend to be much more empathetic.

The sermon was exactly what I needed. It was taken from Hebrews chapters 11&12 and made one essential point. There is a difference between trying and training to do something. I have been trying to do many things lately. Some things I've been trying to do for a while now without much success. I realize now that it is because I tried that I failed. Trying is expending an effort in the hope of a given outcome. Training is preparing yourself so that given the opportunity you will acheive a given outcome. If your goal is to run a sub-four minute mile, you can either try to run it and kill yourself in the mean-time more than likely without accomplishing your goal, or you can train yourself eventually reaching your goal through perseverence. It is simply not enough to try to do anything. In the course of spiritual evolution which we all go through, natural tendency only takes you so far. You have to make a committed effort to become a better person.

I also realize that I've been looking at things in the wrong way. You don't get a choice whether or not to accept the challenge. The challenge is upon you whether you like it or not. Life is how you respond to that challenge. So far I think I've failed.

A love letter I should have written...

2004-08-07T04:17:00.000-07:00

I spend most of my time with my eyes shut, dreaming of you - lovely little cameos of you flitting past, and full-length feature films. I remember things you said, and sweet things you did. I can spend hours like this - eating lotuses, smelling poppies - hours I can hardly believe have passed.

I went to a concert tonight, but the music heightened my emotion to such a fever pitch that I had to leave, and go to a bar. A bad idea: everybody was there with their lover. Only I was alone, a solitary Adam before the creation of Eve. Except I wasn't in paradise. Far from it. I caught your reflection in the mirror. Even the beer bubbled with your humor, the way your face lights up when you laugh. The bar was haunted by you - I had to leave.

When I got home, I sat for a long time in the dark, wanting you, thinking hollow thoughts, containing only your absence. There must be more empty space in my head than I ever thought. I am going to bed now, so I can dream of you.

To make sure I do, the last thing I'll do is kiss your picture, and wrap my empty arms around the idea of you, and fall fast asleep. Holding onto my fantasy of you, I'll feel that with each breath something leaves me, and goes to you. And there I'll conjure up your face across a candlelit table, holding hands walking down a street in Barcelona at midnight, your wet skin pressing against mine on an abandoned beach in Haiti. In my dreams we are the lovers that others gaze on enviously.

Why are our pleasures so short and interrupted, and our absenses so long and unbroken?

Truckstop

2004-08-07T03:05:00.000-07:00

The clock on the wall sneers 3:42 and there he sits on that old familiar diner stool, its red vinyl long since patched with duck tape. His eyes glance down at the tepid coffee and the half-eaten apple pie, which is by now less a la mode than a la flood.

"Can I get you anything else Finch?"

His real name was Charlie Greenbaum, but everyone knew him as Finch. That was his sobriquet on the CB radio, his trucking name. He chose that name because when he was a little boy he saw 'To Kill A Mockingbird' and wanted to be just like Atticus when he grew up. By the time he grew up, he had himself become a lawyer, and not a bad one. In the beginning he was consumed with the battle of right versus wrong and every litigious engagement took on the feel of a morality play. He started dating another lawyer. They even had their own practice. Then something changed. For years, he had quibbled over moral vagaries and technicalities with crooked judges and sleazy lawyers for the sake of clients who, even if not guilty, were anything but innocent. After so much of this, he realized he was selling his soul. He felt like a priest in the middle ages peddling indulgences,” Sin much, or grievously? Call the prayer offices of Hoffman and Greenbaum. We'll put in a good word for you with the powers that be, sparing you guilt and eternal damnation! Now isn't that worth forty percent?' Whatever happened to Atticus Finch? What had happened to the honorable southern lawyer sustained by his righteous convictions?

He began to hate his job. He began to hate the humanity that sustained his job. Worst of all, he began to hate himself for being party to it for so long. That is why one day ten years ago, after saving a client who had absconded with several thousand in ill-gotten gains from the company till on the meagerest of technical points, he cancelled all appointments and typed his letter of resignation. When he got home, he unplugged his telephones and drew the shades. For a week, his only contact with the outside world were the morning and late night talk shows and a brief visit from the sheriff to make sure he was alive and if so, serve him with papers. Turns out his partner was looking to legally acquire sole ownership of the firm. None of it offered much in the way of abating his newfound disillusionment.

One day he saw a commercial for a truck driving school serving as an interlude in the cable rebroadcast of ''Smoky and the Bandit'. How could he refuse such cunning strategic marketing? A month later his name was off the law firm, he had his class D operator's license and was heading a load of industrial fertilizer to Fresno, thinking of his ex-partner the whole time. To this day, he couldn't help but think of the name 'Hoffman' whenever he passed downwind of a feedlot.

He liked his new job. He was only required to drive a certain number of hours a day, which let him catch up with his reading. He even had a huge sleeper cabin all to himself. The clincher though, was that the only people that existed either worked in stops along the way, sent him his paychecks, or were fellow truckers, and all of which occurred with comfortable rarity. He even garnered a certain taste for country music on dull stretches of road where the same old hills roll for a hundred miles.

A few things happen when you criss-cross the country enough times. You learn the roads and the best places to stop between your destinations. At that point, Charlie knew from personal experience practically every truck stop, greasy spoon or rest stop vending machine where you could grab a meal after 2am in sixteen states. Nevertheless, this one was his favorite. He stopped here at every opportunity, about twice a week, for the last seven years. The reason was Dotty.

"What? Oh, no thanks, I'm fine."

"You've barely touched your food. Something wrong?"

"Naw, I'm fine."

"Wasn't talking about you. I was thinking about having some pie later and if you can't stomach it, I might just have the cheesecake."

"Oh, really?"

"No, but if you're not going to be honest with me, I'm not going to be honest with you either. Now finish up, you don't look like you've been eating enough as it is."

"Yes Mom."

"That's right, and don' think you're too big or I'm too old for me to take you over my knee..." She walked away cackling. He just grinned.

He had kept to himself for much of the first few years when his company started shipping to a new client roughly twelve miles east of west bumfuck. He had been to the truck stop several times before but he had stuck to his business, ordered and left, usually in under twenty words. His friendship with Dotty came purely by accident. Really.

An over-excitable teenager in a red camaro had been running in his blind spot and tried passing him on the highway two miles from the stop. Either oncoming traffic was faster, or his acceleration was slower than the driver of the camaro had expected. In order to avoid it the red camaro had cut him off, misjudging the distance between Charlie's front and the back of the car ahead of him in the mean time. The lead car tapped on the brakes for whatever reason, the camaro was surprised and slammed on his, and there wasn't enough distance or time to stop an eighteen-wheeler with a full load. The camaro took it hard on the backside and lost control, veering off into the other lane. The driver overcorrected his steering and flipped a few times off the shoulder.

The closest paramedics were ten miles away and there wasn't much left of him by the time they got there. While he was cleared of any wrongdoing, the law and a man's emotion judge his actions by two different standards. Later he would find out from the insurance report that the kid was hyped on meth and had been driving cross-country almost non-stop. He would find out that the kid had a history of driving erratically. He would find out the kid had been ticketed twice and almost lost his license for wreckless endangerment. Almost.

That night he had no way of knowing any of it. It probably wouldn't have helped anyway. That night, it was another evil act he had been party to and exactly the type of thing that he had tried to get away from when he became a trucker.

In every small-town truck stop there are a lot of folks who are just passing through, but there are always regulars and 'Finch' was one of them. They had never spoken casually, but Dotty knew by heart what he would order -scrambled eggs and a coffee- and what song he would request on the little jukebox on the counter. -'Much too young (to feel this damn old)' off the Garth Live album- So customary was all of this that when Dotty saw his truck pulling in, she'd reflexively get the line-cook started on some runny eggs and have the cup of coffee waiting and the song playing for him when he entered. He'd never say so aloud, but he always appreciated the effort and always left a fifty percent tip for the courtesy.

The night of the accident, he decided to put into the truck stop to make the call to the agency telling them what happened. For insurance purposes, they made him recount the accident. It took all his resolve not to choke on the words. When he was finished he hobbled over to his usual spot, a red Vinyl barstool liberally patched with duck tape. (He never liked the noise it made when he sat on any of the other ones) All he could do was stare at his paper napkin.

"I'm sorry, but you took so long in there that your food got cold. I'll have Pete make you some more eggs and pour you a fresh cup."

She quickly returned and set the coffee in front of him. A heavy hand half-heartedly reached for it knocking the scalding brown liquid all over the counter and sending the small ceramic cup crashing to the ground. Perhaps it was the crash or maybe it was just the seething liquid in his fly, but whatever it was he became animate once again, if only for the moment.

"GOD, WHAT ELSE?!?" Charlie was usually a very quiet man, but his frustrations had found an outlet through the violence of the spill and his emotions would not be denied this one ostensible opportunity to vent. Charlie sunk into the stool next to his. He put his fists on the table and bore his forehead into them, stifling a war cry against the injustice of the world.

After Dotty had calmly cleaned up the mess, she called to the line cook.

"Hey, Pete! I'm on break."

She then proceeded to cut two generous slices of apple pie, dalloping one with ice cream. She made her way over to the other side of the counter and over to him.

"With or without?"

His head grew heavier as the rage passed, but he managed to look up at her.

"What?"

"With or without ice cream. I didn't know if you liked your pie with or without, so I brought one of each."

"I'm not paying for this."

"That's right, now take a bite and tell me what's bothering you."

"Nothing." He felt like an ass for being so childish and for lying when he was so obviously sullen. Grown men didn't do such things, but right now, he wasn't too much of a mind to care.

"You know Finch, it is Finch right?"

"How did you know?"

"It's on your shirt, but never mind that. I've been here since this place opened up all those many years ago. In my time I've seen a lot of people passing through, and some of them pretty regular. Tonight when you came in here earlier, you were like Jacob and the Archangel. I wasn't going to say anything then because it wouldn't have been polite. Now after that little outburst I know you have something that needs talking about."

"I don't think I could."

"Then it's settled, you need the one with the ice cream." She pushed the plate towards him. "Have a bite. Its good pie, I made it myself only this afternoon. It might make you feel better." He just stared blankly at her for a moment. "Please, if nothing else do it to make this old woman happy."

Half sardonically he retorted "Oh you don't look a day over eighty-five."

"I'm sixty-eight and you're not going to get you off the hook by trying to hurt my feelings. Now, take a bite and let me know what you think."

She just wouldn't quit! He took a bite onto his fork and she was right. It was good pie. It did make him feel better. Most importantly, it helped him share the night's events. He just took a bite whenever the words seemed to be stuck in his throat. She listened intently and gasped when she heard about the camaro. Afterwards, she reached across the table and took his hand, relating to him a story that happened a few years back when someone tried to rob the truck stop. A trucker chased the would-be bandit off, but not before a stray bullet hit a server, a friend of hers. Dotty had tried to help, but she ended up dying in her arms. It was their third week on the job. Dotty related how she had felt helpless and angry, but mostly helpless. She reassured him that it was alright and sometimes there just wasn't anything you could do.

Her vocalization was everything his conscience had been trying to tell him all along, but she made it real. It was too much. His tears seemed to have a will of their own and would not be held back any longer. When he left that night he still felt bad for the kid, but part of him felt fresh, renewed. He hadn't felt that way in a long time.

He became a trucker so that he wouldn't have to make any permanent friends, but from that day forth he had come here. There was a strange feeling now when he entered this diner. It became his sanctuary. The cheap old clock, the squeaky vinyl, the lights that were always too bright and the stale of cigarette smoke, all of it became sacred to him. In short, it felt like home.

He visited Dotty when he was around, always ordering the same cup of coffee and runny eggs, and always there was a slice of apple pie waiting for him at the end. He still didn't talk much, but every occasionally, when she didn't have any other customers to attend to, Dotty talked to him. She liked to talk about the news of the day. On a slow day, she liked to talk about the truck stop or tell stories of her children. The whole time she would nag him intermittently -when he first found out she had children he just laughed to himself and thought Hey, at least she comes by it honestly All the while he'd just smile and listen intently, nodding his head. Over the years, he learned a lot about her and the truck stop.

He learned that her real name was Dorothy, but that when she started here they shortened it to 'Dotty' because it sounded friendlier. She said she didn't care because it suited her more anyway. The truck stop was partially funded by the state as a way to encourage commerce and help the local economy. He learned that it had switched owners and been renovated three times, but the faucets in the ladies' room continue to squeak to this day! A hand-full of women had given birth to their baby's in the diner when the closest hospital was twenty miles away. She herself had delivered two of them. There was a fire, a drought, and a flood in no particular order.

There was even a wedding! Hers, to be exact. She married the line cook before he was sent to Vietnam and went MIA. She had lived a whole lifetime in these walls, and there were pictures hanging on them to prove it. Mostly she just did what you could to 'give travelers a place to fill their belly and nurse their aching soles.' as she once put it. He was never quite sure whether 'soles' was meant to have a double meaning, but that's how he took it.

That brings him back to the moment, filling his belly and nursing his 'sole'.

(editor's note: I really don't know where I should take this from here. Any comments or suggestions would be greatly appreciated.)

Their Day

2004-08-07T03:02:00.000-07:00

It was their day.

Two years ago on July Fourth was the first time they made love.

They had been seeing each other exclusively for three weeks. She had wanted to do it well before that, but he had his hesitations. It wasn't that he was shy or prudish or unaffectionate. They knew each other as friends before they started going out. In the middle of their first date, he took a reprieve in the middle of cloud watching to draw her close and they kissed for literally an hour. He hesitated taking that next step because she never really seemed to open up to him. Even in their most private moments there was always that piece of her that was guarded and that wasn't how he wanted it to be between them. He was not the type of guy who would sacrifice his ideals for a quick roll in the hay.

So it was on the fourth of July that he sat there with her watching Ever After. Consumed with thoughts of how becoming her own pair of wings would be on her, he barely noticed when she stood up. Without undue preamble she took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. Once inside, she captured his eyes.

That night she had worn a comfortable pair of jeans and a pure cotton shirt. She was always wearing things like that. She told him once that she liked wearing t-shirts because they were always soft and comfortable, like she was dressing herself in white rose petals. At that moment she began plucking them one by one and allowed the petals to fall to the floor at her feet. In a short time she was standing bare before him, with only the gossamer glow of the moon gracing her skin. She was still, waiting for acceptance or rejection at his touch.

He was breathless. He had of course had a reasonable idea what she looked like under her clothes, but he refused to take that which could only be given. Until that moment she had always been ensconced in her own protections and insecurities. This was the first time she had truly surrendered herself to him. She had never looked so beautiful. No woman ever had.

Three hours later they lay there, bodies entangled. Neither one wanted to break the connection. He grinned and she cried.

"Gee, I hope I wasn't THAT bad!" He mused.

That got a chuckle out of her and she nestled herself more closely into him.

Two years later he found himself sitting sitting in another apartment, across town, relieving the humidor on his desk of another cohiba in his own ritualistic fashion. He admires the shape and luster of its wrapping. He draws the cigar beneath his nose and allows the smell to fill his nose. He rolls the cigar between his fingers and feels the smoothness of the wrapper. He listens for a crinkle, the sign of a poorly rolled cigar, but finds nothing unsatisfactory. He poors an ounce of rum from the faux-crystal decanter into a double-shot glass. In it he lightly dips the end of the cigar, only long enough to not spill the rum or soak the tobacco. He then clips the end of the cigar and lets it rest in his left hand. With his right hand, he passed the rum beneath his nose and knocks back the shot taking time to savor the warmth of the amber liquid dispersing like insatiable fire through his chest.

Now came the reason behind the ritual. He brought the cigar to rest between his teeth, never letting it touch his lips. He strikes a match, touches it to the end of the cigar and draws first breath. He watches as the fire dances on the end of his cigar. He watches the trail of smoke rising up to heaven as a declaration of the burnt offering. With this final sacred acknowlegement he draws the cigar to his lips. First contact was always barely a brush against the half-parted lips. Ah, but the second touch is magic.

It is on second contact that his lips commit to the draw and seem to fuse with the cigar. When the bitter shock of the rum meets the waiting suppleness of whetted lips in that first moment of realization, it almost seems too rough, too garish. As the touch lingers on his lips, what first seemed vulgar now becomes intoxicating. He is compelled to suck the marrow from it all the more desperately. He does so with a moan of satisfaction.

He had known her in the same fashion, and with the same intimacy as this cigar. He had admired her simple, unadorned beauty. He knew the fragrant blossom of her smell. His fingers had traced along her every curvature and drank of the suppleness of her skin. He knew the chime of her voice and had listened to her searching for some indication that she was too good to be true. He had found nothing. He had dressed, and undressed her and he had lain with her. He had tasted her. He had felt her warmth against the cold of night. In short, he had been inspired by her. Theirs was something unique, something special, and something sacred.

He had never smoked around her. She would have thought it was disgusting. She would have said he was killing himself. Now she probably wouldn't care. Now she'd probably save such worried entreaties for him. He pined for her, but all he had were these cigars and the ritual. Every time he smoked one he made love to her again. When his lips finally touched a new cigar it was their first kiss once more. She would have said he was killing himself, but what a sweet way to go.

Usually he paid little attention to the clock on his desk, but as he cast his glance downward he was charmed by it. It seemed to linger in that moment with him, desperately holding on to eleven fifty-nine. It held that moment for what seemed like hours. Eventually the clock surrendered to the greater will of destiny and the silly little red sticks arranged themselves to signal midnight.

It was no longer their day.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...

2004-08-01T03:01:00.000-07:00

I'm going through a very dark period right now. What brought this on was a discussion I was having with another friend regarding transcendental meditation and the different levels and planes of existence. He said that of the material, astral, and causal planes, we tend to draw either the good or the bad out of the universe, depending entirely on what we project outward.

Through what little study I've done in comparative religion, I know that Christianity considers man inherently sinful and says we can only achieve righteousness through god. I know that Islam says that man is inherently good, but is despoiled by outside influences and must therefore reject the evil in the world. I know that Judeaism says that man is neither good nor evil, but must choose righteousness consciously. I've always held closest to that last perception.

I've always had a lot of friends who've brought out either the best or the worst in me. Lately I've been remembering the second type.

I had a friend once who was a lot like me. He loved his family very deeply. His loyalty was unfaltering. His sense of humor was unflappable. He was a big ole redneck with a strong sense of justice. He liked women and whiskey and he was tough as nails. In fact, he was the last guy to hand me my ass in a fight. Needless to say we got along famously.

One day we were sitting in a take out place waiting for our pizzas to get ready and he asked me if I had ever killed somebody. I answered him honestly and told him,"Not directly." Something really seemed to be bothering him, so I told him to spill it.

"Can you keep a secret?" I told him I could. He then went on to relate to me how two years ago his mom was seeing this one guy. He was a real prince too, he beat her and got drunk a lot. His mom kept telling him not ot do anything, but one time he beat her to within an inch of her life. He couldn't let that pass.

So one day he walked up to the ass-hole's car with his 9mm at his side. Without pause or precursor he put two into the side of his head. The cops thought it was an attempted carjacking and closed the case. He told me what it felt like. He told me what it looked like and how it smelled when certain flecks hits the hot upholstery and started to bake. I was not there when it happened, but I knew exactly how he felt. He told me how it got to him at times, but that he'd do it again if he had to.

I couldn't blame him. I know that there have been times where I've wanted to kill and could justify doing it. Its not as difficult as some people might think. When someone is so vile to your loved one they cease being human. They are beasts walking upright. No different than shooting a rabid wolf.

Like him, I have had both the inclination and the opportunity. Unlike him, I have simply chosen not to. I can't say exactly what has held me back. but then I've always been perhaps too sympatico.

During a darker period of my life I had a room-mate who was both a gang-member and a satanist. This made for some interesting night-time discussions. He decribed organizing the death of some enemies and seemed like he was always for his own violent demise to come. I once tore another (usually docile) friend off him just before he would've killed the satanist. The satanist didn't even put up the pretense of a fight. He just stared into his attacker's eyes. I knew immediately why he did it and it was my first clue to understanding him. He didn't care if he died or not, but if he was going to, he wanted his eyes to haunt and torment his killer.

I asked him once why he believed as he did. For an hour and a half he described to me what his life was like. He said his life was cursed. He described to me the constant pain that afflicted him since he was young and how every time he fell asleep it felt like dying. He described to me how he saw disembodied spirits arise and torment the living when he slept. He described the ghosts of the men he killed stalking him, waiting for his turn to fall. He told me how he could wrap himself in seven blankets and still be chilled to the bone. Throughout all this I listened. I didn't say a word. Though I had never experienced these things for myself, I knew exactly how he felt.

In the end it always comes down to a choice between hate or love, lonliness or syncronisity, fear or faith. I was friends with both of them because I recognized myself in them. I know when faced with the same decisions I would be tempted and would be quite capable of making the same decisions. I am just as dark a beast as those two. I've just chosen the high road more often than not. What scares me is that I'm not strong enough to say I always will when it counts. That's what scares me.

2004-07-29T00:53:00.001-07:00

I’ll start where we agree. We both believe that the rich nations should not impose economic policies on poorer countries which they would not adopt for themselves.We disagree in that I think we should open our markets as well, and you seem to think that's a bad idea.

Consider this...

Britain has every incentive in the world to get it's beef from New Zealand. The high amount of arable land means that it takes less resources to produce better beef. Its also safer, more sanitary and more animal friendly because the animals are allowed to roam and feed on higher quality food. Its cheaper because land is cheap. Ecologically, the land isn't overgrazed and (since the government has stopped subsidizing fertilizer) industrial fertilizers which are notorious for their ill-effects to the environment and contaminating underground water supplies are rarely used. In short, New Zealand has a clear comparative advantage in the beef market.

It would make a lot of sense for Britain to import all it's beef, yet she doesn't. You see, Britain has cattle farms, too. They're notorious for being cramped, world class progenitors of pollution, and for low quality/high cost beef. Worse, its unsafe. Its been a common practice in such 'feed-lots' to save money by thinning out the feed with saw-dust, raw sewage or even road-kill. (Anyone who has lived in Kansas should know of the practice)

What happens when you feed meat to an herbivore? You get foot and mouth disease, BSE (bovine spongiform encephalitis) and its human variant CJD (Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease). All are not only too common in Britain, but have originated in the British beef industry. 180,000 cases of BSE have been reported in Britain alone and another 1,800 cases reported in foreign markets due to lax regulatory accountability. Moreover when people eventually die the farmers are not penalized for their harmful actions, but rather compensated for the loss of their cows which now have to be destroyed. The farmers are getting paid either way. Subsidization leads to a frightening and dangerous lack of accountability.

Not only is British beef more dangerous, but it also presents a form of regressive taxation on the poor. Because of the greater resource expenditure to raise cattle and 'protect' prices and farmers, beef is incredibly expensive. Two to three times as much in fact. Between this and other protections, this means a food budget for a struggling family of four amounting to 300 dollars a month now goes half as far. Either they suck up this extra expense and pay more, which prohibits them from otherwise saving, investing, or using that money, or it has to make do with half as much food.

Been there. It sucks.

I'm not saying that company's are angels of beneficence, they're not. A company is at root a bunch of people working together to further their own interests. To that effect Adam Smith once said that there were two things needed to ensure the survival of capitalism. The first was an educated populace to sustain it's advancement. The second was the separation of private interests from politics. Not only do I agree, but that's my whole point.

If you wanted to pick an example of how protectionism helps an industry grow and at the same time ask me to evaluate it on a socio-political level, you could have picked a much better example than the cotton industry. Harvesting cotton is very labor intensive work, even with Eli Whitney's cotton gin. The cotton industry in America thusly capitalized on enslavement. This supported the complimentary industry of the slave trade, led the south to secede from the union to protect the economic interests of the few, and fostered the hatred and poor race relations which has soured American politics for over two hundred and fifty years. How's that for an externality?

The ultimate power of enforcement in the marketplace is the federal government. Consumers can vote with their dollars, but it doesn't mean much if the government rigs the election beforehand. When a special interest wants protection that's who it ultimately has to make its appeal to. Special interests pay politicians to keep other businesses out of competition with them through tariff walls, ‘anti-dumping’ laws, and lengthy bureaucratic procedures. When this happens corruption and graft not only permeate the economic, but political systems as well. This was the heart of MacCain-Feingold. Protectionism makes us all less free.

Consider this, thirty years ago it was commonly thought that for a fledgling economy to grow it needed protectionism, tariff walls, subsidies, et. al. At that time both India and South Korea were dismally destitute.

India followed the conventional wisdom. With the lack of outside intervention, competition to control the inside business grew fiercely with businesses paying off politicians and becoming subsidized monopolies in their sector. Without the accountability to the consumers fostered by competition, quality and customer service fell and prices rose to prohibitive levels. Indians were stuck paying more for less. Perhaps worst of all, even though there was food agricultural price supports meant that half the children in a country of almost a billion people suffered from desperate malnutrition because of its lack of availability in urban areas. In short, the standard of living plummeted.

South Korea decided to take the opposite route. They opened up their borders to free trade and enacted policies which fostered growth through international investment. Their chief initial resource was cheap labor, so repetitive jobs with minimal skill requirements began popping up in 'Sweat Shops'. South Korea in turn was then able to reinvest the rewards of this investment in better infrastructure and education which in turn fostered further international investment and growth. Soon it became cheaper to hold 'Sweat Shops' elsewhere and the populace was ready for newer, more challenging, and more lucrative work.

Thirty years later, the sweat shops in South Korea which coined the term 'sweatshop Earth' have led to the development and enrichment of one of largest, most successful economies in that part of the world. Beyond that, the standard of living of your average South Korean is much higher than that of their neighboring countries. All of this leave proponents of the protectionist myth declaring it an economic 'miracle'.

Meanwhile India remains one of the most corrupt governments and destitute economies in the third world. But it's getting better. In recent years India has slowly but surely began relieving itself of internal protections. Its now opening up its borders to more outside trade. Consequently the standard of living has risen as well. Its still not where it needs to be, but meaningful change takes time.

American protectionism isn't a case of some lightweight going up against a juggernaut of trade. Its more the case of the aging prize-fighter, who can no longer compete, so he makes an appeal to the referee. "Look Mac, I got babies to feed. I'd appreciate it if you could swing this a little bit my way, ya know? Maybe tie his hands, or let me take a few shots below the belt to even things up a little. C'mon Mac, we go back a long way. You can even wet your beak a little from the prize money. We both win." This is the same argument used every time an industry appeals to the government for a subsidy or tariff. Its incredibly sleazy and incredibly unfair to the young prize fighter trying to come up in the world.

That's exactly what the WTO is saying we shouldn't be doing. That's also why I think its a shame we'll never go along with it because its political suicide to go against the special interests. That brings me back to Adam Smith's quote about the necessity of an educated public and keeping business out of politics.

Bottom line, we're all better off doing what we do best. Proctectionism inhibits that and exacts a stifling economic and moral toll on our country.

Free trade as viable foreign policy.

2004-07-26T11:16:00.000-07:00

There is an old maxim which I think summarizes the effect of trade on foreign policy beautifully.

"Where goods cross borders, soldiers don't."

This is of course because if you have a vested economic interest in a particular country then you have a shared interest in seeing that country prosper. I think a beautiful example of this can be found in the war to go to war in Iraq.

If you look at the way the sides crystalized you'll see a whole lot of interesting coincidences. No matter who you believe it all comes down to playing 'follow the money!'

The Democrats say that the Bush family/administration has strong ties to Haliburton, a company specializing in petrolium exploration and construction, with some other fun horizontal expansions as well. By attacking Iraq, which was on Bush Jr's agenda anyway, we could dip our fingers into the Iraqi oil pie and get Bush's buddies rich, who would of course contribute lots of money to his re-election campaign or his presidential library. (no doubt filled with Dr. Seuss books) They also point out Bush's ties with the Saudis, the Saudis ties to terrorism, and the fact that we aren't exactly going after the the home of Bin Ladin and almost all of the 9/11 hijackers. Nepotism apparently abounds in the Bush White House.

They have a point. Iraq was pretty much a closed market to us since we had sanctions against them, so we had no financial incentive not to go after them. Furthermore we've got lots of financial ties to the Saudis where we get the vast majority of our Arabian oil from. Incidentally it wouldn't be unlikely that our shared economic interests would explain why such a traditionally radical islamic country as Saudi Arabia has been so staunchly supportive of our efforts.

To listen to a Republican tell the story the reasons why France, Russia and Germany weren't all too keen on removing Saddam also had economic origins. All three had lucrative multi-billion-dollar contracts with Saddam's regime. French President Jacques Chirac even had ties to Saddam from the late seventies when Chirac sold Saddam a working nuclear reactor despite UN objection. The reactor in turn was promptly bombed into oblivion by the Israelis before it could be completed in '79. Then there were the thousands of pages of documents recovered after the fall of Baghdad which not only affirmed what links we already knew existed, but supported still more nefarious collusions of the three powers and one pariah. Then Oil for food broke out. Apparently, Saddam was getting quite wealthy off the mismanagement of this international aid program and he used some of that pork fat to ease a few high powered politicos into his pocket. The list of the non-kosher included high ranking European officials even up to the UN assistant Secretary General. It even had the names of high ranking policy makers in the US and the UK. Naturally, they had been the loudest opponents to the war in both parliamentary houses.

They have some good points too. Not all, but a sizable portion of the opposition to the war can be found to have sizable financial interests invested in the Saddam regime and apparently the louder the yells, the more money they had invested.

Let's back up here a little bit...

I've always been fascinated by the social sciences. Baltasar Gracian once quipped ' A great science to understand the minds of men, and to discern their humors: just as important to have studied men, as to have studied books." Reviewing history we can see that patterns arise of human behavior that we can apply to our present situations and future endeavors. This is the reason why another trite old maxim has survived for so long. Those that fail to learn from history...

History shows us that most wars are of economic origin. All the way back to a fledgling Sparta you waged war essentially because you were competing for resources with your neighbors. The more arable land you had, the more crops you could grow, the more food you had for you and yours to progenerate. Either you were trying to get more land, or someone else was trying to take it from you. Deviation from this common theme is rare until roughly the last two hundred and fifty-years.

Despite the fact that economics is so decidedly concommitant to politics and foreign relations, the proclivity among most people is to regard them as distinct fields of influence and espouse two entirely separate ideologies regarding how such affairs should be handled. Democrats say that politically we need to forge alliances with other nations in the interests of national security and at the same time set up tariff walls against them in order to ensure domestic prosperity. Republicans say that we need to pursue our own national security interests on the world stage militaristically even unilaterally if necessary, but we need to encourage open markets because we all benefit from more trade with each other. In this regard both Democrats and Republicans are just two sides of the same hypocritical coin. Consider this...

The UN is a bunch of countries who came together in good faith and agreed to a set of standards which promote the common interest and act as an arbiter in order to stem future wars and increase global prosperity. The WTO is a bunch of countries who came together in good faith and agreed to a set of standards which promote the common interest and act as an arbiter in order to stem future trade wars and increase global prosperity. The UN and the WTO came about in the same spirit and serve the same functions, only in 'different' aspects of foreign relations. So it baffles me how some republicans excoriate the UN on principle and then praise the WTO as a worth-while enitity, while some democrats scream the evils of the WTO from the mountaintops and look to the UN for international guidance. I've already had this foreign policy discussion with my arch-republican room-mate, so I'll ask something of any democrat who can answer. If the liberals of the world are so quick in declaring the necessity of a 'we're all in this together' approach to international relations, why do they seem to be having such a hard time applying this concept to their economic policy?

In the end it I think this short-sightedness stems from an 'US vs Them' mentality with both terms equally ubiquitous in a world which continues to progress and become more interconnected. The tremors in an asian economy can be felt as relative earthquakes here at home while the ripples in America's economy produce tsunamis overseas. This 'Us vs Them' mentality manifests itself in both economic and diplomatic arenas as protectionism and isolationism/militarism respectively.

When you look at our foreign policy over the last hundred years the most effective tools in our arsenal have been the strength of the dollar and our standard of living. Think Marshall Plan and the exportation of Jazz. By sending both overseas we showed prospective communist countries a better, richer way of life. (I still get chills when I listen to what I call 'Ambassador Jazz'. Ella in Berlin is a classic album and Louis Armstrong & Dave Breubeck scored a classic social commentary with 'The real ambassador') Even the Soviet Premier himself fell in love with our way of life. When Kruschev visited the US in the late fifties we cheuffered him around in his own private helicopter. Upon returning to the Soviet Union he decided he'd like to make it his standard means of travel, but he couldn't because his aids told him it 'wasn't safe in a soviet model'. For years now I've been convinced that the reason the Soviet Union failed was purely economic, and their particular economic failure was driven by isolationist/protectionist policies. If this seems a bit out there consider that Sweden has a plethora of social programs the soviets themselves had, yet with a higher standard of service and living than the Soviets. The difference? The policies of the USSR had lofty social ideals and a prevailing sense of leave-me-the-hell-alone. Sweden has similar ideals, but it also has practically the most open markets in the world and an over fifty percent tax rate. In the mean time what happens when we diverge from Dollar diplomacy in favor of a more proactive militaristic approach can be summed up in one word: Vietnam.

Then we have sanctions, embargoes and other 'voluntary export restrictions'. In short, bad ideas. What really kills me here is that sanctions are not only harmful to the population of a foreign country, but they are entirely counterproductive. The whole point is ostensibly to punish the dictator for some misbehavior by putting the squeeze on his economy and hoping that the citizenry with put pressure on the dictator. This is an idiotic assumption because; A) While that might work in a democracy, despots tend to be less accountable to the masses and (having control of the army) have less of a reason to care. B) Like AK stated before, those that have the power in a given system will inevitably work the system to their advantage and everyone else's detriment, so there's little chance of negatively affecting a Dictator's way of life even as it sends the rest of the country into ruination. C) By inflicting such devastation on a people we only re-enforce the perception of us being demented swine which in turn fosters resentment of us and then lends credibility to the leader among his own people for standing firm against us. Finally there's D) Because nature abhors a vacuum even in trade, black markets spring up doing a robust business charging extortionate prices for more questionable goods. Cartels spring up. Remember, making something illegal deosn't make it go away, it just makes it more risky, and more lucrative/competetive. Voluntary export restrictions within a given industry do roughly the same thing by effectively granting a monopoly to domestic producers allowing them greater control in their national marketplace. Its protectionism from the outside.

So if all we accomplish is helping those we're trying to teach a lesson to and hurting those we're trying to help, why do we do it? First, because that just seems like the thing to do. Don't wanna play nice? You don't get to sit at the cool table! Second, because by limitting trade from other countries we 'protect' domestic industries which is always a crowd-pleaser at home come election time. Third, because there is a lengthy precedent for doing it. Not necessarily a precedent of such measures being publicly beneficial, but in essence we're trying to avoid military action and it's been done before so there's a historical precedent at least. Fourth, because it feels good to feel like we're actually doing something to redress a grievence. Lastly, because there's no public outrage until the course is fixed and the damage is already done. The public really doesn't care unless they or their neighbor is affected and for all they can see, Bob down the street just got a raise and an SUV because he works in a protected industry. Consider the alternative....

Once the Soviet Union adopted the policy of Perestroika the public clamored for more freedom and it wasn't long before the iron curtain fell. As China continues to open its markets, the freedom movement continues to grow. When presented with a palpable alternative the public tends to examine their own system of government and opt for a more user friendly interface. Without the righteous indignation of an external oppressor to sustain the 'Us vs Them' mentality, the powers that be have a harder time justifying draconian or outright hostile policies. (where would St. George be without his dragons or Don Quixote without his windmills?) Furthermore, they have a harder time on the world stage as now they're messing with international trade and thus other people's livelihoods. Foreign trade and investment become a Sword of Damocles because both the populace and their neighboring countries have a fiscal incentive to see the powers that be impliment friendlier policies. Maybe that's why the more oppressive the regime the more it tends to enact policies limiting foreign influence.

In this more globalized world, it is simply not enough to win battles and impliment democracy by force. Neither can you encourage isolation for by doing so we only further entrench dictators and grant them more power over their own subjects. We must show the people a better way, and they will follow on their own. As the world becomes more interconnected and interests become more interdependent you'll find more cooperation among nations and less incentives to go to war or take punitive measures against whole populations. Would we have invaded Iraq if that's where we got our oil from? I doubt it. As it stood we had more to gain with Saddam out of the picture. Draw your own conclusions about the war, but don't deny this world will be a better place when we all realize three things:

1) 'The Greater Good' doesn't recognize political boundries.
2) All of our diplomatic and economic interests are supplementary and demand supplementary approaches.
3) That means a more open world is ultimately a safer, more prosperous world.

Moment of truth

2004-07-25T13:41:00.000-07:00

          A frightened eleven year old boy stares at the faces in the alleyway. His hands and his knees are quaking, but he's doing his best to hide it. There are thirteen faces. They stood arranged six in a line roughly four feet apart, another six parallel to them and one face at the end. He knows each one. Every one of them had come to his house and eaten barbecue chicken at least once after church, or on the fourth. He had never liked them much. They were always there at the request of his brother.

          These weren't the same faces that he had grown up with. There was something strikingly different about each one. Some shifted their weight from side to side. Some just stood there in the overhead light of the alley dancing on their forearms and casting shadows over their eyes. He knew they were clenching and unclenching their fist as if trying to pack their knuckles into the smallest, hardest balls they could. The faces ranged from 22 to 12. The smaller ones, about five in all, were clutching bats or pipes or planks of wood with nails protruding from the ends.  With each passing moment he could feel them growing more angry, more determined.

          All of this was directed at the scrawny, scared little boy staring down the alley-way. He had never wanted to be there. He had never wanted to be involved with any of it. It hadn't been like this four years ago when they moved to this god-forsaken little town. Back then his brother and him were closer. They looked out for each other. Everything was the same for the summer after they moved. They spent most of their times in doors playing video games or riding bikes outside.

          But once school started things changed. He was just starting third grade and his brother was starting sixth. They went to two different schools so for the first time, they could only walk a little ways together before heading off in thier own separate directions. Everything was fine for him in elementary school. He had a little difficulty in math, but he earned a lot of gold stars everywhere else and he got along with the other kids. His brother wasn't having so easy a time. On his way to middle school he'd run into some local kids who started harassing him and taking his money, supplies, and lunch. His brother was tough, but tough doesn't mean much against a cadre of eighth graders.


(To Be Continued...)

An exercise in the extemperaneous

2004-07-24T16:40:00.000-07:00

I have my own pool cue. Its the screw together kind with its own case and its made from titanium. I won it off a pool shark. I was kicking back in a bar with a few buddies. Everyone was drinking including the shark and this guy had been routing us all night. Right about the 3am when I noticed his speech pass slurred on its way to gibberish, I got tired of watching my buddies get whipped by this guy for booze, so I took up a cue and laid down some money.

" I got a round that says I beat you next game."

I'm not normally so confident in my billiard abilities. That night however, I was the designated driver so I had only had a few shots of Jameson. I felt my sobriety would serve to my advantage. Worst case scenario I would lose ten bucks and I'd contribute some more entertainment to the evening.

" Rackem up then, tiger. See wutcha got. You break."

So I did. The break was impressive. I sent balls scurrying all over the table. Unfortunately none of them wound up in a hole. His turn.

So he lines up a shot and knocks in a solid. Then another. And another. In the matter of five minutes, he had me down two balls to seven when he scratches it.

I carefully line up my shot. I guestimated the distance and the angle. I took a few back and forth motions to gauge my delineation and the appropriate point of contact with the ball. All is silent, but I can see him growing impatient. I reach back and take my shot... My cue skiffs off the cueball sending it directly into the side pocket.

He laughs.

Two shots later he had run the table on me and was cuing up to drop the eight ball in the corner pocket. It wasn't an easy shot with all of my balls still on the table. The eight was kissing the 13 from behind and in order to sink it he'd have to negotiate a difficult bankshot around the my 13. In my case, thirteen proved to be a very lucky number. By some miracle of fate or circumstance, his shot was off and he scratched on the eight ball. Technically speaking, I won, or at least he had lost.

It was my turn to laugh. He was infuriated and insisted that the exact terms of the bet were that I had to beat him and I had clearly not won through any merit of my own. He might've been right, but he still seemed liked a sore loser and no one likes a sore loser. Especially my buddy's who had been losing all night to this guy. Besides, none of us were really sober enough to remember the exact terms anyway. Faced with the possibility of a fight on my hands and the possibility that someone would call the cops and discover I wasn't old enough to be in there. Both were sobering propositions for me and the shark. I made another deal.

" Look, hey, you could be right, but I won fair and square according to the rules. Let's call that one a practice match and we'll just play another one, this time explicitly stating that you have to lose in order for me to win the bet."

"Double or nothing and you're on."

"I'll rack 'em."

So he breaks with force and authority. In the beginning he was playing. This was war. He sinks another solid and runs the table down to three. I sink two more stripes. He sinks two more before barely missing his last solid.

Its a funny thing about my personality. I'm usually a very laid back guy, but when I am in direct competition and I'm not overthinking it, I become my own personal four-leaf-clover. Through one of the more incredibly lucky streaks I've had on a pool table, I run my five stripes off the table and I have a chance to win.

At first the shark was amused, but when I dropped that last strip into the side pocket, he looked irritated again, and a bit worried. I was loving every minute of it. But cockiness is anti-thetical to my type of luck. As I was lined up to sink the eight ball, it bounced off the backing and rolled back onto the table.

His despair replaced with a renewed venegeance he hit the cueball so hard it stopped dead on contact and all we saw was a solid blur going into the pocket. I was a sitting duck. He lined up the eight, called his pocket and let loose on the cueball once more. This time too hard. It made the eight fly off the table and hit one of my buddies. The fight almost erupted right there. The bar manager came over to see what was the commotion and asked if there was a problem. Everyone demured.

"C'mon guys, it's my shot."

I placed the eight ball on the table and the rules we were playing by say that I had to hit the opposite wall before I made contact with the eight. I have no bank shot to begin with, but further complicating matters, the cueball was resting at such an awkward angle that I was going to have to shoot behind the back. I resolved not to think about it, lightly tapped the cue ball and hoped for benificence.

I barely knocked the eight.

My buddies emitted a collective sigh of disapointment. The shark just cackled. He took another swig of his drink and lined up his last shot, still difficult because the cueball came to rest against the eight and in order to avoid scratching he'd had to put on the slow hand and hit it at just the right angle. He reared his stick back and let fly. The corner bank denied it entry to the pocket, and the cue ball came to rest across the table.

This was my best shot.

Almost without pausing I reared back and let fly, the cue ball knocking it into the corner.

My guys and I erupted in jubilation. The shark let out a howl. He owed us all a round, and he owed me twenty bucks. We were soon to find out that he only had a twenty on him and was using the guys for his drinks. There was no way he was leaving without buying them a round, so the only thing left to give me was his pool cue.

Origin and Nomenclature

2004-07-22T19:09:00.000-07:00

CYRANO: Look you, it was my life To be the prompter every one forgets!(To Roxane): That night when 'neath your window Christian spoke --Under your balcony, you remember? Well! There was the allegory of my whole life: I, in the shadow, at the ladder's foot, While others lightly mount to Love and Fame! Just! Very just! Here on the threshold drear Of death, I pay my tribute with the rest, To Moliere's genius,--Christian's fair face!(The chapel-bell chimes. The nuns are seen passing down the alley at the back, to say their office): Let them go pray, go pray, when the bell rings!

ROXANE (rising and calling): Sister! Sister!

CYRANO (holding her fast): Call no one. Leave me not; When you come back, I should be gone for aye.(The nuns have all entered the chapel. The organ sounds): I was somewhat fain for music--hark! 'tis come.

ROXANE: Live, for I love you!

CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast-- But I remain the same, up to the last!

ROXANE: I have marred your life--I, I!

CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship--grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path.

LE BRET (pointing to the moon, which is seen between the trees): Your other lady-love is come.

CYRANO (smiling): I see.

ROXANE: I loved but once, yet twice I lose my love!

CYRANO: Hark you, Le Bret! I soon shall reach the moon. To-night, alone, with no projectile's aid!. . .

LE BRET: What are you saying?

CYRANO: I tell you, it is there, There, that they send me for my Paradise, There I shall find at last the souls I love, In exile,--Galileo--Socrates!

LE BRET (rebelliously): No, no! It is too clumsy, too unjust! So great a heart! So great a poet! Die Like this? what, die. . .?

CYRANO: Hark to Le Bret, who scolds!

LE BRET (weeping): Dear friend. . .

CYRANO (starting up, his eyes wild): What ho! Cadets of Gascony! The elemental mass--ah yes! The hic. . .

LE BRET: His science still--he raves!

CYRANO: Copernicus Said. . .

ROXANE: Oh!

CYRANO: Mais que diable allait-il faire, Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?. . . Philosopher, metaphysician, Rhymer, brawler, and musician, Famed for his lunar expedition, And the unnumbered duels he fought,-- And lover also,--by interposition!-- Here lies Hercule Savinien De Cyrano de Bergerac, Who was everything, yet was naught. I cry you pardon, but I may not stay; See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence!(He has fallen back in his chair; the sobs of Roxane recall him to reality; helooks long at her, and, touching her veil): I would not bid you mourn less faithfully That good, brave Christian: I would only ask That when my body shall be cold in clay You wear those sable mourning weeds for two, And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him.

ROXANE: I swear it you!. . .

CYRANO (shivering violently, then suddenly rising): Not there! what, seated?--no!(They spring toward him): Let no one hold me up--(He props himself against the tree): Only the tree!(Silence): It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to stone, My hands are gloved with lead!(He stands erect): But since Death comes, I meet him still afoot,(He draws his sword): And sword in hand!

LE BRET: Cyrano!

ROXANE (half fainting): Cyrano!(All shrink back in terror.)

CYRANO: Why, I well believe He dares to mock my nose? Ho! insolent!(He raises his sword): What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who fights ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you!--You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old enemies of mine! Falsehood!(He strikes in air with his sword): Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! Prejudice, Treachery!. . .(He strikes): Surrender, I? Parley? No, never! You too, Folly,--you? I know that you will lay me low at last; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still!(He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless): You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, I bear away despite you.(He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers,falls back into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.)

ROXANE (bending and kissing his forehead): 'Tis?. . .

CYRANO (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling): MY PANACHE.

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I offer this as an explanation.

I borrow the preceding passage from Scene 5.VI. of the Play 'Cyrano De Bergerac' with all due deference to Edmond Rostand. It is at once the triumphal exigency of our hero, Monsieur De Bergerac, and the recounting of the spirit with which he lived his life as he then passed on to death.

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Cyrano De Bergerac was a real man, a famed duelist and satirist born in 1619. He met his end along much the same lines as in the play, but it's not sure whether or not it was an accident or an assassination, and the play makes no bones about it being the latter.

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Growing up I was enthralled with the character of Cyrano, and character is precisely the right word for it. I admired him and felt empathy for him. I was also a born romantic (born a few centuries too late I'm afraid) with a temper and a flare for the dramatic. Also like him, I had little self-esteem or self-regard, being all to aware of my own failings. In the end what I think I admired most about and would emulate the most is summed up perfectly in his exit. His entire life he was the embodiment of unwavering principles of honor, loyalty, passion, love, wit, and romance. Every undertaking he engagued in was imbued with these same qualities.

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I've read several analyses of this ending scene and most scholars see it as the realization of failure in Cyrano's life and a broken soliloquy serving as a last-ditch attempt to justify his existence. They see it as the panicked last musings of a man undone by his self-consciousness, unsatisfied with his life, and going out in a huff of righteous indignation.

They are so wrong.

Cyrano was a proud man. Even if it was a compensatory measure as most people claim, and I wouldn't argue that point, it merely provided his driving force. His nobility was his bulwark. Armed with such drive and fortitude he mastered every other field of endeavor in his life and had much to be proud of as a result. In the end, he didn't let Roxanne know of his involvement on behalf of the young lieutenant because he was upholding the ideal that Roxanne should have the perfect romantic love and he had spent his life ensuring that she did.

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My dad once told me that every man is inevitably concerned with how he with be remembered after he is gone. Some men spend their whole lives trying to make something of their lives, only to be unsatisfied at the end. Others switch courses at the very end in a rush to overpower their many failings with their good deeds before they die. But Cyrano knew what he was doing. It is not enough to spend your life searching for advancement or to rectify yourself at the end. You must hold to truth throughout or else it is all for naught. If fame, glory or riches befall you as a result, then so much the better. However, these petty embelishments are not what makes a man great.

The name of this Blog is taken from the last line in the play. The first time I read it I was moved to tears, and every time I've read it after that it has been the same story.

'Panache' literally means a feather in your cap. In Cyrano's day it was that extra something you wore high upon your head for all to see. It was something to be proud of, a distinguishing characteristic of your personage. Cyrano's Panache was a white Plume, long and flowing. The color symbolized unblemished virtue, the length and quality represented the extent to which he possessed it.

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In his final words he is summing up the pursuit of romantic ideals which characterized his life. I never wanted to make a blog. It was just never something I particularly cared to do. I'm technically illiterate besides, so all the more reason for me not to venture into such an undertaking.

Over this summer however, I had a friend who out of sheer boredom or curiosity (I'll never know) produced a writing contest. I didn't win, but that is no indictment considering the high calibre of writing I was up against. In the midst of it my insomnia came back with a frenzy and I was going three days on as many hours of sleep. I found inspiration and some marginal degree of talent I didn't even know I had.

Its been about two weeks since I've not had that outlet and it seems I'm teeming with ideas with no impetus to write. Reflecting on this recent experience and my Nom de Plum I realize that it is not enough to just believe in honor, love, and integrity. I must define them by my action. In attempting this Blog, I am hoping to crystalize this in a way I just haven't seemed able to do on my own. Lest I be overtaken by sloth or depression I must hold them at bay with the furied slashes of my pen. I must write, if only for cathartic purposes.

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Questions, comments, suggestions, criticisms and witticisms are welcomed and encouraged. I'm sure I'd love to here anything pertinent you might have to say. A caution before you post, though...I won't guarantee not to exercise my prerogative to ignore or attack what you have to say if you're trolling or generally being an idiot. Other than that, I hope you enjoy what humble table scraps of my life I can offer you.

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With that said, I want to end this post with Cyrano's final words and the quality I wish to emboss upon my life's undertakings...

What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who fights ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you!--You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old enemies of mine! Falsehood!(He strikes in air with his sword): Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! Prejudice, Treachery!. . .(He strikes): Surrender, I? Parley? No, never! You too, Folly,--you? I know that you will lay me low at last; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still!(He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless): You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, I bear away despite you.

MY PANACHE.